


and for once, you let go

by kittycathqueen



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Character Death Fix, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Angst, Night Terrors, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Sansa-centric, Sleepy Cuddles, Wedding Night, ramsay is only mentioned- don't worry he can't hurt my bbs anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittycathqueen/pseuds/kittycathqueen
Summary: 8x03 fix it, set in the near future once the North is at peace.She’s done thinking of the pain tonight.She wants to think of Theon instead.





	and for once, you let go

**Author's Note:**

> Big PSA-- This is my first GOT fic, and I haven't seen the whole show. I did have a beta reader who was super helpful in correcting my ignorance, so it should be okay-ish.
> 
> I love this ship and plan to keep writing for them, so I hope my writing of the characters and knowledge of the show improve over time!
> 
> Enjoy! Oh, and title is from You Are in Love by Taylor Swift.

The wedding is gorgeous, of course, because the North deserves a happy day for once, and the Lady of Winterfell's wedding is a good place to be merry. Everything around her is bathed in splendor and beauty, and she has to stop to take in all the work that was done for her.

Truth be told, Sansa feels a little overwhelmed by it all.

It’s the kind of wedding that she would have dreamed of as a young girl. The beauty, the charm, the wonder. But now the whole effect leaves her feeling a bit anxious. She knows that this is nothing like her last wedding, that she’s safe to do as much or as little as she pleases tonight. But she also knows the expectations people have of a wedding night. Most people know what Ramsay did to Theon, but still, there are many ways to have sex, and at least some of the guests must have a picture in their mind of what might happen once they leave.

Theon would never do anything she wasn’t comfortable with, and she very much doubts that he would want to do anything either, with his situation being what it is. Briefly, as she stands behind a wall waiting to be led in to the square where the ceremony is taking place, she lets her mind wander and wonders if he’s been intimate with anyone since they escaped Ramsay.

When they were young, he had quite the reputation with prostitutes and other women. But now, he’s become so different. It’s like thinking of two separate people.

She shakes her head like she could shake the thought away with the movement, and focuses on something, anything other than her childhood desires for the man she’s about to marry. Her gaze lands on her dress. She’d outright refused to wear white. Only Theon knew why (though, technically, she guessed Bran did as well), and no one had questioned her.

She’d chosen a soft pink, just a shade down from peach. The neckline is high, and the dress floats behind her rather than clinging to her body. She hadn't wanted people to look at her, to size her up and determine for themselves if their Lady was truly a woman. The color and cut had calmed her nerves in the days before, and Theon seemed fond of it as well.

Jon and Arya walk her to where Theon is waiting for her, and she clings to their arms, her face pale. She tries not to relive those old terrible memories of Ramsay being at the end of the isle, his smirk and greedy hands and filthy thoughts waiting for her. She tries not to think of what had happened afterward, what had happened for weeks, or the long, angry marks she still has on her inner thighs. 

In spite of herself, her breathing quickens, and it’s just noticeable enough for Jon and Arya to notice and tighten their hold on her.

“You’ll be fine,” Arya whispers. “It’s Theon.”

It’s Theon. 

It’s Theon. Sweet, kind Theon, with golden curls and warm eyes. He’d been a blessing for her after the battle for Winterfell, always ready to lend a hand or be a sounding board as she’d agonized over the best way to help her people. When she needed him, he was there. Always. 

She will be here for him too, even with the memories of her last wedding clawing at her core.

When she gets to him, she turns to face him. He looks right at her with a faux-confident look, but the shaking of his battered, callused hands gives him away. Without thinking, she reaches forward and takes his hands in hers, running her fingertips over the sunken hole where an index finger used to be. Instead of flinching, he just looks at her, stunned, but she holds his gaze to say I want this, don’t overthink things.

The wedding passes by in a blur of colors and lights. There’s a lot of dancing. She’s pulled in by a delighted (and very drunk) Podrick and he twirls her, the breeze from her swishing skirt cooling her legs and making her feel a bit exposed. She laughs though, despite the feeling, because she feels quite warm and happy in his arms. Brienne-- also a bit sloshed-- cuts in and asks to dance, she lets the older woman lead her as Jaime watches with a smile. She still feels a bit prickly towards the Lannister, but he’s been no trouble, and she can’t deny the happiness and light he brings out in Brienne.

The night goes on, and more and more people work up the courage to ask her to dance. She accepts, always, but she’s only ever comfortable when it’s women or children who are asking. Tyrion, Tormund, and a couple other men she knows are one thing; she trusts them not to go too fast or feel her up. But random men send shivers up her spine just by stepping into her space. Her breath hitches embarrassingly, and the only way she can bring the color back to her face is to pinch her elbow roughly.

From the corner of her eye, she witnesses a couple of brave girls ask Theon to dance, but he always cuts those dances short with a mumbled apology and a glance Sansa’s way, as if to make sure she’s enjoying herself even if he isn’t. And that’s the answer to the question that had been going through her mind earlier; he had definitely not been intimate with anyone since he was held captive. The way he jolts when girls place their flirty hands on his shoulder proves that much.

Towards the end of the night, she works up the nerve to approach him with a wry smile.

“Not one for dancing tonight?” Sansa asks. “It is your wedding day, you know.”

He lets out a little laugh and ducks his head. “I don’t enjoy crowds much anymore, is all.”

She nods. “I understand. If I wasn’t the Lady of Winterfell, I think I’d have snuck away hours ago.”

Theon raises a playful eyebrow. “You do have the power to end the festivities, you know.”

Sansa shrugs, looking out at the crowd as they dance, drink, and act merry. 

“I don’t want to end their fun time. They’ve suffered enough in these past few years, you know? I’ll let them have this.”

Theon goes quiet, and when Sansa looks over, his eyes are looking over at her pensively.

_“What?”_

“You’ve suffered too. Don’t you deserve to be comfortable?” Theon questions.

Sansa mumbles something incomprehensible and her eyes flutter down towards her feet, away from him. Damn him.

“You too,” she shoots back after a minute. “But I think you're breaking some hearts saying no to so many dances."

It's her attempt to make the conversation a bit lighter, and for her efforts, Theon gives her a slight smile.

He looks like he's going to say something (an explanation, or a witty retort, perhaps) but then his attention is called away by Tyrion, who is holding two goblets of wine.

“Good luck,” she tells him, smirking a bit at the distraction. “He’s looking for a new buddy to drink with.”

“Best not to keep him waiting, then,” Theon nods, and then he’s gone.

She wonders why the right side of her body feels so cold now that he’s not leaning against her.

~-~

It takes a couple more hours for the festivities to wind down, and people begin to kiss Sansa’s hand and say their goodbyes  
.  
It’s during this time, the soft, dusky sky above her as she watches people go home to their own families, when she reflects on all of those who are gone to her. She wishes her parents could have seen her today, wishes Robb and Rickon could have chided her for looking so awkward and nervous at first. She even misses Margaery, her warm, feminine laugh and conspiratory smile.

She and Theon are excused not long after, and they retreat to their rooms with a soft smile and a goodnight. Before the wedding, they had talked about rooming arrangements, and Theon was adamant that Sanasa be as comfortable as possible. They both figured that she would stay in her own room for however long she liked.

Once she enters her room and shuts the door behind her, the silence falls around her like a weight on her shoulder. All day, she’d been distracted with preparations and dancing and Theon and Tyrion’s antics… and now it's just her. Just scarred, vulnerable Sansa in a room by herself, unable to shake the feeling that Ramsay is walking down that hall towards her door, and the pounding will start any second. He doesn’t take no for an answer, never, never, and he’ll force his way inside if she doesn’t open the door. He’ll only be angrier when he finally gets in. His eyes will be dark and he’ll step towards her and. And.

She stops her thoughts with a sharp whap to her head to shake it off. Ramsay isn’t here. He’ll never be here. He’ll never touch her again, never drag his hands up her body like claws and laugh at her sheer misery. He’s dead. Fed to the hounds, devoured, consumed. He’s gone.

And yet just like a ghost, his presence remains here for her wedding night.

She wonders if Theon is lost in his thoughts like she is, if he’s thinking of the same wretched night that she is. He had to watch, and, at the time, she was too terribly angry at him and full of pity for herself to consider what that did to him. She’d heard him crying the whole time, loudly, and she knows he must have been punished for that. Still, his sobs persisted, and that strange little detail sticks in her mind without reason.

What had happened after Ramsay left her there, a huddled mess of tears and ripped fabric? Theon had gone with him. He was forced to. He left her there, alone, and faced Ramsay’s wrath all on his own.

“You knew Sansa as a girl. Now watch as she becomes a woman.”

Ramsay was a monster, and a wretched, awful thing, but he was right. She became a woman as his captive, not because of the rape, but because she taught herself to be strong even while facing monsters. She’d become strong enough to make her own decisions. Back then, it had been choosing to die as herself rather than remain his captive. Now, it’s not wanting to spend her wedding night alone, in the dark, fighting off the ghosts that surround her.

With that thought in mind, she pulls herself off of her bed and walks to the door. Her hand hovers above the doorknob, a moment of hesitation. And then it’s gone, and she’s walking, instinctually, towards where she knows Theon is residing.

At the door, she knocks softly, but he hears her anyway, his face appearing as the door opens.

“Sansa?” he asks, and her mouth goes dry. The way he’s looking at her, she knows, _she knows_ he’s been thinking of Ramsay just as much as she has.

“Can I-- can I come in?”

“Sansa, I-I’m not decent, and I don’t think--”

“Theon,” she interrupts. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. And you’ve seen all of me. All of my scars. You were there when some of them were made. I’m not afraid of yours.”

Theon flinches, and she feels very bad for a second, because she hadn’t meant it in a cold or accusatory way. It’s just fact. He’s seen her bare. Seen her in pain.

She’s done thinking of the pain tonight.

She wants to think of Theon instead.

She begins to walk in, and he doesn’t stop her. He opens the door further, even, and they brush arms when she walks in. She tries not to shiver. She shivers. She thinks he does too.

She sits down gently on his bed and looks up at him with big doe eyes. He lingers near the door, until she waves him over.

“Can I-- can I do anything? To help, Lady Sansa?” Theon questions.

She shakes her head. “No, my lord. Your company is more than enough.” She draws her knees up to her chest, the open and exposed feeling coming back, and wraps her arms around her legs. 

Theon sits next to her, and hesitates. “Are you thinking of R-Ra--” He breaks off, looking at the wall, and Sansa quietly intertwines his hand with hers.

“Yes. I know Winterfell is safe now, and that you’re safe, and I’m safe, but… it brings back the memories from that night,” she says, looking at him somberly. “I know it’s stupid, but--”

“It’s not stupid,” he interjects. “You’re not stupid. Not at all, Sansa.”

He sounds so genuine that his voice seems to reach right into her chest and squeeze around her heart. Before he came here, she had people she loved, but none that understood her quite like Theon does. His hands, though battered, callused and incomplete, fit perfectly in hers. 

She finds she doesn’t want to leave.

“Theon, can I stay with you tonight?”

He tilts his head at her, like Lady used to, and if she wasn’t so nervous, she’d giggle at that. As it is, she holds her breath and waits for him to say something.

“Jon and Arya will surely talk," he points out.

“Let them," Sansa counters, lifting an eyebrow fiercely. “If they have anything to say, I'll tell them that I wanted to spend the night with you, and sleep the whole night through for once.” 

Her eyes flutter shut, and then open again, gazing at him through her eyelashes. “I feel much safer when you’re near. And I don’t claim to know your feelings, but you seem like you enjoy my company as well, unless you’re pretending.” 

“No!” he assures her. “Never pretending. Not with you.”

She squeezes his hand in hers, runs her finger tips over the jagged scar where a finger used to be.

“It’s our wedding night, Theon. I think we both deserve some peace.”

He smiles warmly at her, and starts nodding. “Which side of the bed do you want?”

“I prefer being closest to the wall,” she tells him, and he doesn’t need to ask why. He just motions for her to go first and she does, crawling onto the bed and settling herself on the right side. He joins her in a second, and blows out the candle that was previously their only inside light.

The room grows pitch black, the only light now coming through the window. Ignoring a slight twitch of Sansa’s leg, neither react to the sudden darkness. Sansa has to remind herself that she’s not a child, not a spoiled princess, but a strong heroine in her own right. Strong heroines don’t frighten themselves over the nighttime.

The next several minutes are spent trying to adjust to the feeling of someone else’s weight on the other side of the bed, and trying to get comfortable within the limited space. It’s an awkward and clumsy process. She elbows Theon a couple of times, stutters out apologies.

“If I knew you were going to be sleeping here, I would have requested a bigger bed,” he tries to joke, and she snorts.

“Here, just-- turn around. Turn so you’re not facing me.” He does as she says, so he’s facing the door, and she lowers herself into the narrow strip of empty space left for her. And then, before she can talk herself out of it, she slides her leg in between his and presses herself lightly against his back. Her arms hover in the air awkwardly for a second, but then they settle on his ribcage. Her touch is so feather-light that he could easily move away, but he doesn’t, doesn’t even try for a second, and that fact alone tells her that he’s as affection-starved as she’s felt.

She tucks her head against the nape of his neck, and his curls fall over her forehead, the tickle making her scrunch her eyebrows together. Still, the position isn’t altogether uncomfortable. He’s warm and pliable in her arms, and she finds she likes the feeling of being close.

She smiles against his skin. “See?” she says, forcing confidence in her voice. “This works.”

“That it does,” he acknowledges.

She tucks herself in tighter against his form, cold all the sudden, and he flips the covers over the both of them. The room goes silent, but it isn’t unnerving like in her room. Instead, it’s peaceful, serene. She likes life like this, when it’s standing still, the only sounds in the whole room being Theon’s breathing right near her ear. The stars’ light shines in, just a little-- just enough so she can see the way how she fits perfectly against him. 

“Sansa.”

“Yes?”

“I have night terrors. Most nights. I can’t promise I won’t wake you up with them,” he tells her.

She merely cuddles in closer and sighs. “I get them too. Usually I’ll wake up a couple times a night.”

“I’m sorry,” Theon says softly, his voice low, and she just hums in response.

“I guess we make quite a pair with our matching night terrors,” she smiles, her nose bumping his head. 

It’s quiet again, save for their breathing, which has already synced up. She doesn’t know why that makes her want to cry, or laugh, or maybe do something even crazier like rolling Theon over so they’re mere inches apart, looking him right in his amber eyes, and kissing him so soundly that they both see stars in the back of their eyelids.

She keeps the urge at bay, and hums again. “Thank you for marrying me, Theon,” she says.

She can tell he’s smiling when he answers, “There’s nothing else I’d rather do,” and when they both fall asleep, it’s restful for once, with no tossing and turning. They sleep solidly through the night, wrapped up in each other with their matching breaths, surrounded by a thick veil of serenity that chases away even the cruelest of ghosts.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahg... I feel like it was okay? I haven't been so nervous about posting a fic in a while, I guess because this fandom is still so new to me. I'd love it if ya'll could go easy on me!
> 
> If you want to laugh a sec, here are some actual things I had to ask my beta:
> 
> "Do they have, like, blankets in this time? Or is it just fur pelts and stuff?"
> 
> "They need candles to see, right? Or else they just sit in in the dark?"
> 
> "Do you always use Lord or Lady before someone's name? Or is that just a formality? Because a lot of scenes have Theon call her 'Lady' Sansa and I have no idea if that's typical in every conversation."


End file.
